So Quite a New Thing
by LadyDrey
Summary: To survive life after his death, Sherlock remembers John. When he returns to London, John has changed, but so has Sherlock. In comforting John, Sherlock finds something that he never realized he needed.
1. Chapter 1

Instead of sleeping, Sherlock remembers John. Many things – Mrs Hudson, Baker Street, London, even Scotland Yard – make Sherlock think of his old life, but John is home. He knows that this is nothing more than sentiment, but sentiment is what forced him to fall, so he plans to use it to survive. Some things about John he has deleted, of course, before he realized how essential every detail would be. But there are enough memories left to get him through his time away. Remembering John is the only rest he gets for two long years, and it is enough.

Mycroft keeps Sherlock updated about London. Usually about interesting cases or family or how his reputation is faring, but sometimes about his friends. The updates about John are always heartbreaking, and always far too brief.

_John has not left the flat since your funeral13 days ago. He does not sleep or eat. -MH_

Sherlock's most treasured memories of John involve laughter, because his smile and laugh bring out Sherlock's in a way that no one else can. The freedom John gave him to engage in sentiment made him more human, more comfortable, more brilliant. Now, away from his luminous influence, Sherlock clings to the laughter.

_John has started eating again. He talks to the skull and your chair, but no one else. -MH_

Once, on a case, a teenage boy witnessed the murder of his brother, and he was infuriatingly difficult to interrogate. John gave Sherlock a look that assured him he was being insensitive and went to the sobbing boy, clearly in an attempt to comfort him. As he looked down at the crumpled, despairing figure on the floor, Sherlock could see a series of emotions race across John's face. Sympathy, understanding, pity, sadness, fear... Sherlock understood everything else, but John understood what people felt and what they needed. So he reached down and put his arms around the boy, holding him close, rocking back and forth, and murmuring nonsense into his ear. Sherlock could not imagine touching a stranger in such an intimate way, let alone enjoying it, but John and the boy both seemed comforted by the action.

_The surgery was going to fire John if he didn't return to work after two months. Today he decided to go in. The day seemed to go well, but when he returned to your flat, he spent the entire night telling your chair about work in minute detail. -MH_

They had spent three long, gruelling nights trying to locate the exact whereabouts of a serial strangler from Norway, and they were finally closing in. Moments after they had broken into the (formerly) abandoned house, things began to go wrong. John was being held at gunpoint by a guard that Sherlock could have sworn was not there earlier, and that made it difficult for him to think. While he was still trying to reason their way out of this disastrous situation, John caught his eye and skittered his gun across the floor to Sherlock with his knee. The guard, surprised, looked away from John for just long enough for him to roll away from danger. From there, Sherlock easily subdued him.

_John has finally remembered to only make one cup of tea. -MH_

Of all the updates, this one rattles Sherlock the most, and he seriously considers actually responding to his brother. For six months John had been making him tea, even though he wasn't there? For the eighteen months they lived together, tea had been a very important ritual. John would make the tea for Sherlock in every situation, even when he was angry or hurt. Unconditional tea became their way of showing affection. Sentiment, yes, but Sherlock couldn't shake the sadness of knowing that John clung to the ritual as much as he had, but had finally given it up.

_After months of asking, John has accepted a case from Lestrade. He seems nervous. Made two cups of tea accidentally. Put on and took off your scarf several times before leaving. Decided not to wear it. -MH_

Sherlock loves remembering John on cases with him, so he is happy Lestrade finally convinced him to start again, a year after Sherlock's death. Instead of remembering, Sherlock tries to imagine John on a new case, without him. That doesn't feel like home, though, so he stops trying to picture it. He hopes John doesn't get hurt without him there for protection.

_John has started going to pubs with Lestrade on the weekends. -MH_

Mycroft's updates never mention John dating again, but perhaps he doesn't realize how important that is in John's return to normal. Or, Sherlock thinks wryly, perhaps his brother had finally learned tact and privacy. Unlikely. But John at pubs with Lestrade is a good sign. As much as he relied on John, as much as John relied on him, he knew that a day would come when John pulled himself back together. He was a stronger man than most people gave him credit for. Sherlock tries to ignore the empty feeling inside of him and focus on how glad he is that John was fine. He is not entirely successful.

_I'm done, Mycroft. I'm coming home. -SH_


	2. Chapter 2

The last leg of his trip, the train ride to London, taunts Sherlock. Every whoosh of the train on the track, every sway of the train, matches the frantic beating of his fearful heart. Sherlock Holmes is not a man who frightens easily. In fact, he hasn't been afraid for two years, because his fear centres around the people he loves. A bomb strapped to John, John being kidnapped, Mrs Hudson's pain... all terrors pale in comparison to the fear he felt knowing they could all be killed in an instant, because of him. But now, returning to them at last, his fear is selfish.

Mycroft's updates on John's well-being were so important to Sherlock when he was away, more than either man would ever acknowledge, but they leave little doubt in Sherlock's mind that John is self-sufficient without him. Sherlock is not a stranger to indifference. He grew up on it, thrives on it, understands it, perfected it. Indifference has always been his constant companion. Imagining John, though, as unmoved by his return slowly squeezes at his galloping heart. He can handle an angry John, a self-righteous John, even a hateful John, but never an apathetic John. Sherlock can barely control his urge to shoot something, play his violin, smoke, anything to distract his overactive mind from his homecoming.

Finally he is in London, cataloguing everything that has changed since he left. Mycroft's car picks him up at the train station, and Sherlock deduces the life of the driver, just to have something to do. His heart still beats painfully, and he knows Mycroft will be able to tell his weakness, his fear. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_. But Sherlock doesn't agree anymore, because it was an advantage. He could not have survived for so long without his thoughts of John, of home. The car slows, and he uses all the strength he has left to shove his fear into a corner of his Mind Palace. Time enough to think of that later. Now, he has to see Mycroft and get the tedious business of preparation over with.

All Sherlock wants to do is go home to Baker Street and John, but Mycroft insists on creating a plan, forcing Sherlock to change his clothes and choose a logical time to arrive. Sherlock knows John wouldn't care if he shows up in the middle of the night, but he defers to Mycroft for the sake of ease. Arguing would waste time, and Sherlock is tired of wasting time away from home. So now, just as the sun is rising, he is ushered into his brother's posh house. Mycroft appears, says his name, looks at him with an unidentifiable look in his eyes, unidentifiable even for Sherlock. Sherlock is caught off guard by how pleased he is to see his brother and forces himself to rearrange his features into a neutral expression. His time away has changed him. He fleetingly wonders if remembering John has turned him emotional like John, but then dismisses the idea. Sherlock is not so easily swayed.

Mycroft insists that John will not be home until the evening, so Sherlock relaxes enough to tend to himself. The last two years have been hard on his body, and even he recognizes the need to eat and sleep before seeing John. Fear bubbles up inside him again at the unbidden thought that he may need the sustenance to survive John's indifference, but he pushes it away. Sherlock is not a man who worries. Worry is pointless, just like caring. Neither emotional response will change actual events. So he focuses on the things he can change and do, like getting a haircut (tedious), showering, changing into his old clothes (familiar, comforting, sentiment), and eating his first full meal in recent memory. Sherlock goes through the motions, but he is still sick with fear. Mycroft doesn't seem to notice when his hand occasionally trembles, or mercifully pretends not to.

Finally, after a day that seems to have dragged on longer than the last two years, it is nearly time to go to John. Home. Sherlock can hardly sit still in the car Mycroft is sending him in, his heart is beating so fast. He looks out of the window, observing the London he hadn't realized he missed. Things haven't changed as much as he expects, but the people have. Mycroft seems older, more careworn, but also gentler. The thought makes Sherlock uncomfortable, but it's hard to deny that his brother is both relieved and happy that he is home safely. Even Mycroft can't keep sentiment entirely at bay, it would appear.

Suddenly, finally, the car pulls on to Baker Street. Sherlock's eyes take in every detail of the familiar place, noting changes in occupancy, new decor, and the way that time has worn away at the street. The car slows, and Sherlock is out of the door before it comes to a complete stop. Home, John, home. Good, the locks have not been changed. In the front door, Mrs Hudson is not around, but she painted the hallway five months ago. Up the stairs, too fast, _slow down, Sherlock_, heart beating out of his chest. John, home, John. He stops in front of the door to their flat, smooths down his hair, counts to ten. He can taste his own fear, and feels faint. He briefly considers knocking, but decides against it. It takes all his will power to bring his hand up to the doorknob and turn it. The shaking of his hands barely registers, because he is finally pushing the door open.

And there is John, in the kitchen, making tea. Sherlock almost cries out from the weight of memory that overwhelms him, overcomes him. He takes one step forward, creaking the floor, and then John is walking towards him, not seeing him yet. That fleeting moment before recognition hits is all Sherlock needs to observe John in ways that Mycroft's texts could never replace. He drinks him in, watches John's limp become clear as he walks, sees the increased amount of grey in his hair, the lines around his eyes that have deepened. Mycroft told Sherlock about John's mourning behaviour, but never mentioned the way it was etched into John's skin, the way he still wears it like a cloak. His eyes are tired, sad, but resolute. Just as Sherlock predicted, John is able to continue living without him because John is strong, a soldier and a doctor, the closest thing to a hero Sherlock has ever known. A little voice in the back of his head reminds Sherlock that this is sentiment, but he ignores it, drowns it out with his frantic heartbeat.

Because John is looking at him, and in that moment Sherlock is more afraid than he ever has been. Fear, disbelief, anger, and sadness flicker across John's face so quickly that Sherlock hardly catches them. John's face settles on understanding, and Sherlock can hardly breathe.

Then, John collapses.


	3. Chapter 3

All Sherlock can think is that maybe time has stopped. Why else would his brain have turned off? He stares down at John's crumpled form, wondering what happened, what he should do. Is John angry? Did he faint? Sherlock can't remember the last time he took a breath, and he thinks he might be suffocating in his own indecision. Over the sound of his roaring heartbeat, Sherlock suddenly hears a tiny sob, and then he understands. This was not an outcome he had predicted, because John is fiery and Sherlock has wronged him, and so he did not prepare for the eventuality of tears. Thankfully, he stops thinking and lets instinct take over.

Sherlock drops to the floor, gathering a shaking John into his arms, trying to remember how to breathe. He is overcome by sensation, drowning in the realness of John, here, pressing against his chest. John's hair, softer than it looks, tickles his nose and chin. He smells of tea and medical supplies and something unidentifiable. Sherlock's hands grasp desperately at John's woolen jumper, feeling the sobs rip through his body through his fingertips. So intent on comforting John, knowing this is what John needs, Sherlock almost forgets his fear. Letting out a shuddering breath at last, Sherlock realizes that everything – the sobs, the shock, the fact that John is letting himself be comforted, and the tears that are somehow on his face too (is Sherlock crying? Inconclusive. Irrelevant.) – means that John is not indifferent to Sherlock.

"Everything will be fine. Everything is fine. I'm here. You're here." Sherlock is surprised to hear his own wavering voice in the hushed silence, and he hardly knows if he is trying to reassure John or himself. Possibly both.

Sherlock has lost all concept of time. They may have been on the floor together for minutes, hours, but Sherlock doesn't care. His heart is finally slowed to a normal pace, and with each beat he thinks that he is _home home home_. They cling to each other until the sobs have stopped, until they have regained their strength, until they realise that they should talk about this. John pulls away first, sheepishly wiping at his eyes, but he stays close enough to touch Sherlock. Sherlock is embarrassed that he has tears on his face as well, but he resolutely decides not to deduce if they are his own or John's. He knows he has to say something, explain himself, but he is still exhausted from the fear and relief and unexpected sadness that his brain barely functions.

John seems to understand, because he puts a hand on Sherlock's arm and gives him a shaky smile, and quietly says "Welcome home, Sherlock." After that, Sherlock gives up on talking completely, the lump in his throat preventing him. John, now looking more like himself, stands and guides Sherlock to the couch, coaxing him to take off his coat. All Sherlock can do is stare in disbelief at John. _Home, I'm home._ Neither of them know what to do now. John wants answers, of course, but he doesn't want to push Sherlock, because he barely believes that he is really there.

Finally, after staring at one another for what felt like eternity, Sherlock speaks and the dam bursts. He talks for hours, explaining, every word a veiled plea for forgiveness. John listens, mouth open and hands shaking, at last understanding. He lets Sherlock's words wash over him, slowly beginning to heal the holes that Sherlock's death had left. Complete disclosure helped Sherlock, too, although he would never admit it, because since he had relied on John to listen to him for so long, he had been incomplete without him.

When Sherlock had said everything he needed to, they lapsed into a companionable silence. They had missed simply being together, in the same room, breathing the same air. John nearly dozes off when Sherlock startles him by jumping up and rushing into the kitchen, muttering, "You were making tea, John, when I got home, and I interrupted." From the kitchen, Sherlock hears John's loud, surprised laugh and responds with laughter of his own, rusty from disuse. John joins him beside the stove, gasping for air, and they chuckle while making tea together. Sherlock feels a squeezing in his chest, and attributes it to too much laughter. Mostly.

As they drink their tea, Sherlock roams around the flat and examines how things have changed in the last two years. His messy work areas have been straightened, but everything still appears to be there. The skull is in place, his violin still sits proudly beside the window, and his room seems to be untouched. He raises a questioning eyebrow at John, who resolutely ignores him.

Happy, so happy, Sherlock sets down his tea and picks up his violin, tunes it quickly, and then begins to play. He starts with familiar pieces, pouring his conception of home into the bow, setting the bittersweetness of loss and recovery to music. Turing back to John, he catches the glistening of tears before John looks away, and Sherlock feels guilty and protective. Sentiment seems to have taken over, he realizes. At least for tonight.

Eventually, they realise that it is the middle of the night, and they reluctantly go to bed. Sherlock hardly knows what to do now that he is home and no longer needs to remember John to sleep, but he is so exhausted that he falls asleep as soon as he lays down in his old, familiar bed.

For the first time in years, Sherlock has a proper sleep, but his wakeful memories of John shielded him from nightmares that he didn't realise he would have. Now, out of danger and at home, the nightmares attack him. Writhing in bed, he dreams of falling, of John hating him, ignoring him, of failing and having to watch John be killed.

Before he can wake himself up, he feels strong, steady hands running through his hair and over his shoulders, soft words being murmured, slowly pulling him from sleep. He finally opens his eyes, sees John lean over his bed, worried frown on his face, still soothing Sherlock. Noticing Sherlock's open eyes, John pulls his hand back guiltily, his look of concentration replaced with unease. Sherlock smiles at him reassuringly, grateful for the comfort, and John retreats back to his room. Slipping into a more restful sleep, Sherlock wonders at the peace he feels at John's touch. _Home_.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, it is like Sherlock had never left at all. John makes tea, they eat breakfast, and Sherlock thinks while John watches him. He decides to go see everyone as soon as possible, because Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade all deserve to know he is alive and back in London. John agrees, and seems secretly pleased to find out that Sherlock came to him first. Sherlock almost scoffs at this deduction. Of course he would go to John first; John is home; it's always John.

Mrs Hudson is angry, far angrier than John, but she is also quick to forgive. She fusses around Sherlock until he feels overwhelmed, and it is then that John suggests going to Molly. Sherlock is surprised and grateful. Mrs Hudson understands, and adds as they leave, "John, now that Sherlock is home, perhaps you'll start eating and smiling and laughing again!" Sherlock's heart gives that odd squeeze again, but John seems embarrassed.

At St Bart's, back in the lab where they first met, Sherlock and John are almost reverent. Molly is overjoyed to see Sherlock, because although she was part of the plan, she is unaware of his return date. She looks sheepishly at John, who is jealous of her inclusion, but it is impossible to be angry at such a genuine person. Sherlock can see relief pouring out of her.

To get to Lestrade, they have to crash a crime scene, which causes an uproar among the people Sherlock used to know. Recognition and disbelief flash in every face, and it is finally from Lestrade that Sherlock receives his long-expected punch. His fury is hot and bright, but it burns out quickly and leaves behind happiness. John predicted the punch, Sherlock noticed, but did not do anything to prevent it. A little annoyed, Sherlock questions him in the cab back home, and John just grins in response, his meaning clear. Sherlock supposes he really did deserve it.

The next few weeks pass in a lovely domestic blur, Sherlock thankful for the familiarity at every moment, even the boring ones. He takes every case, dragging a willing John to all of them, living for the moment that he would praise Sherlock's deductions, which John always does.

If, at night, Sherlock is woken from a nightmare by John's touch, well, they never mention it in the light of day.

A month after his return, Sherlock arrives home to find Mycroft instead of John. Sherlock can't bring himself to insult his brother, to his own surprise, because he looks so careworn and sad. The reason for this soon becomes clear: he is here to tell Sherlock that their mother has died suddenly. Sherlock doesn't know what to do, so he does nothing, and with an awkward pat on the arm, Mycroft leaves.

A month after Sherlock's return, John arrives home to find the detective slumped on the floor. Had he not run into Mycroft on the stairs, he would be lost, but John is prepared. He reaches down and pulls Sherlock into his arms, cradling him as though he may break. John's fingers run through Sherlock's curls, bringing him back to reality, grounding him, saving him from drowning in the grief.

What feels like hours later, Sherlock is recovered enough to get up and begin making the necessary arrangements to travel to the funeral. He assumes that John will know he needs him to come, and John does. When he sees Sherlock struggling by the grave, all it requires is a hand on his arm for John to comfort him, and Sherlock is grateful. Neither of them realise it, but Mycroft is grateful too.

Weeks go by, and life returns to normal, though Sherlock's nightmares have an added dimension. It hardly matters, though, because John is always there to wake him. Their new routine is comfortable, familiar, with the addition of soft touches when either of them need it. It is unspoken, but they both understand.

The night of a particularly horrible nightmare, Sherlock is having a difficult time being reassured that John is really there, really not dead or indifferent. John mumbles nonsense and strokes Sherlock's hair and shoulders, but it is not enough this time. Realising it, John climbs onto Sherlock's bed and puts his arms around him. Sherlock relaxes into the embrace unconsciously, leaning in to John's strength and warmth.

Unexpectedly, breaking the understood rule of no conversation, Sherlock has to ask: "John, why did you start touching me? You know I don't like being touched, let alone held like a child." Tightening his arms around the unresisting Sherlock, John huffs out a laugh before answering. "Oh Sherlock, you think you're the only one who can deduce things? You held me when you came home because you knew it was what I needed, and I did the same."

The answer catches Sherlock off guard, but he can't disagree, as much as he enjoys proving himself right. After several comfortable moments of breathing in strength from John, Sherlock twists his body out of John's grasp, settling with their legs and arms touching and their faces mere inches apart. He studies John's face in the semi-darkness, memorising again every line and angle and contour.

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock lifts his fingers to John's jaw and traces his cheeks, hairline, chin, ears. Fascinated, he catalogues John's reactions, and vaguely notices his own. With a ghost of a smile on his face, Sherlock brings his lips to John's and kisses him so tenderly that he fears they both may break. If they do, though, he is certain they will be remade as one. John's breath catches in his throat and he deepens the kiss, pulling Sherlock closer and allowing his eyes to flutter closed. Nearly overwhelmed by emotion, Sherlock pulls back, but keeps his hands on John's shoulders, ensuring they remain close.

"Did you know you needed that, John? Did you know I needed that?" Sherlock's voice is breathless in the darkness, and he would be embarrassed if he wasn't so happy. John's smile is loving, which should scare Sherlock, but does not. When he speaks, it is breathless too: "Not until I thought that I could never have it. But I knew, Sherlock, it was always you."

Humming with contentment, Sherlock brushes his lips against John's forehead and smiles into his hair, smelling and feeling and tasting everything that is John. _Home, I'm home._


End file.
